


The Beautiful & Damned

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 3x05 'Anything For You' Divergence Where It's Not Just a Hug, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Ever Prominent Lack of Communication, M/M, Oswald's Pining Still Results in Isabella Dying, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 22:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: They settle in an abandoned apartment complex, waiting for Lee’s return. And even after all this time, the one memory Oswald’s stored in the back of his mind, close enough it kept him awake at night, fueled dreams and nightmares alike.“I still remember the way you taste.”





	The Beautiful & Damned

**Author's Note:**

> Based on #44 from this [list](https://cobblepotcrimefamily.tumblr.com/post/168961705572/50-dialogue-prompts), in response to the anon that prompted me with it, and titled after [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PUf1Rj4kpc) song.

Oswald's trying to decide if he's just drunk — _well, of course, he's drunk—_  but there's a specific fog to the way Edward's reeled him in, the way his fingers travel from the velvet lapels of his jacket to the nape of Oswald's neck, pulling him closer.  

Oswald’s not sure how they got here, how Point A brought him to Point B, how he has Ed clutching onto him so tight he can hardly breathe, how the product of Ed's lips meshed against his is a rich blend of their heartbeats loud in his ears, drowning everything else into silence.  

Oswald's response is slow, eventually coming out of his spiral of disbelief to settle on wrestling with the band holding his borrowed-robe closed, untying it to snake an arm around Ed's waist, forcing a shift between them on the spread of the couch, slow kisses drifting into a messy dance as Oswald leans back into the arm of the couch, Edward chasing after him.  

And then he's thinking too much, even with the seconds his mind feels particularly vacant, still finds himself jumping from thought to thought, going from ' _E_ _d nearly died'_ to how Ed's hands are everywhere, in some desperate need to explore every crevice, every inch of covered skin. 

Edward suddenly pushes up from Oswald's chest, Oswald following him until he's seated, watching with concern as Ed proceeds to cough with the strain breathing still causes. Oswald can't decipher how relieved he is that the tension had been severed, one that had been causing a chasm since they'd returned from the Sirens. 

Oswald's intent on memorizing the flush on Ed's cheeks, the way his tongue darts out to moisten the curve of his chapped lips, the way it had felt to have those lips pressed against his, wanting to savour as impassioned and eager as it had been, wanting nothing more than to continue, mark new memories in a book with no ending. 

It hadn't been enough. 

Then there's that slight hint of hesitation like the one Oswald had seen in Edward the moment they first disconnected, the one that leaves a sliver of resistance, whether from an already overstimulating night of activity, or the actions of the last handful of minutes — he can't tell. 

Ed attempts to clear his throat as he regards Oswald's unsubtle staring, chuckling as he gives his head a slight shake, seeming to find focus. Ed murmurs  _something,_ Oswald hears ' _it's been a long day,_ ' and he'll swear to himself up and down that he should've asked Ed to stay, but he's not fully lucid, fluctuating between stupor and reality, and finds himself answering back with a  _stupid_ , weary, "okay." 

If there was such thing as instant regret, Oswald had felt it to his core, watching Ed re-tie the bathrobe, raising from the couch, giving Oswald a weak smile, then disappearing out of the living space, light footsteps making way to the bedroom next to Oswald's, the sound of the door closing shut inferring more than he wanted to admit.  

He can't help feeling like Ed had given him an opening, subtext hidden in a statement that Oswald hadn't read into, and he dwells on it for what seems like hours, collecting Ed's teacup and saucer, placing them quietly in the sink for Olga. 

It's not until the next morning, when Ed is nowhere to be found until mid-morning but has left the borrowed robe on the armchair next to Oswald's bed, that the qualms of his inaction are at its peak. He had hoped they could discuss it, figure out if they were on the same page, the same tune that had been ringing in his ears for what seemed like weeks, maybe even  _months_  already: _"Life only gives you one true love, Oswald. When you find it, run to it."_  

It's all enough to derail his responsibilities for the day, wanting nothing more than to express his self-realization of his sentiments towards Ed, but continuously finding himself inarticulate. For being so infamously loquacious on an average day, Oswald can't help how speechless he is.

Edward endures three separate occasions of this, Oswald trying to force words through his lips that contain some variation of ' _I love you,_ ' but each time ended the same, some forced excuse,  _but_  the last time Oswald finds the correct path of words to say. Finding sheer courage when Ed says,  _"_ _I continue to be in awe of you, Oswald."_  

To say in return,  _"there is something I would like to discuss in a more private setting. Shall we say dinner at the mansion, eight o'clock?"_  

Oswald doesn't need anyone to define the anticipation behind the smile on Ed's face. 

It’s several hours later when the feeling returns tenfold that he should’ve never let Ed leave the night before, that he should’ve woken up with Ed at his side that morning.

Because Ed misses dinner, misses Oswald’s practiced proclamation, and after spending twelve hours in a panic, the next time he sees Ed, smile in place that could light up the darkest of rooms, a smile he wasn’t responsible for causing, sets off alarms in Oswald’s mind. Especially when the next thing he hears out of Ed’s mouth is: _“I_ _think I’m in love!”_

Edward’s jovial words easily fracture Oswald’s left-over optimism, feeling an irrefutable agony expand from his stomach, through his chest, up into his throat, an acidic build-up making him want to _throw up_.

Then came talks of who Isabell _a_ was, the beauty in her resemblance to Kristen Kringle, her affinity for riddles and wine, the way they’d been able to talk with ease for hours.

Oswald attributing all of it to Ed’s need for affirmation in having someone he could share similarities with, versus having someone that challenges him, makes him view things in an alternative light. Instead resolving that having someone easy to maintain, easy to submit, someone who would agree full-heartedly with anything he’d suggest — that was somehow the better choice of a companion.

And based on talks with Ed about the type of person Miss Kringle had been, it was something this clone of a woman didn’t share with her predecessor. Isabella was indeed a carbon copy of the past they’d left behind, but now featured a willingness to accept the parts of Ed Miss Kringle had been sickened by, parts only Oswald could unequivocally understand. Isabella brought comfort and sense, whereas Oswald came with confusion and uncertainty.

He wasn’t surprised by Edward’s choice, or how weeks passed with Ed’s focus waning on his role at City Hall.

The horrid, deprecating feeling of longing whenever he came home to find Ed and Isabella in some various embrace was enough to send Oswald into a tailspin. One morning, after witnessing a tender— _infuriating_ —moment between them, Oswald finds a particularly moronic intern at City Hall, has Gabe pull him into the alley behind the building. One gloved hand over the man’s mouth, the other snapping from his cane to impale the recently sharpened knife up and into the man’s liver.

“Should I get clean-up down here?” Gabe asks, and _God_ , _could there be a stupider question?_

“What do _you_ think, Gabe?” Oswald snaps, taking the pocket square from his suit jacket to wipe the blood from the knife, re-sheathing it in his cane.

It’s not nearly enough, he still feels the same level of frustration, even after watching the younger fellow lose the ability to stand, falling into a heap on the cement, sputtering blood from his lips, clutching the wound in some failed attempt to prevent the inevitable.

Oswald meanders his way back to his office, ignoring whatever asinine comments Tarquin is making, slamming the door to his office shut, but doesn’t hear it click closed.

“ _What_?” Oswald shouts sharply, spinning on his heel to meet Ed’s unaffected gaze. Months in office had been enough for people to gauge that a heavy-breathing, finger-twitching, vein-popping Mayor meant he was on the verge of a tirade, but Ed saw it as something else entirely.

Oswald tries to remember that Ed’s not _his_ as he steps towards him, taking the pocket square out of his own suit jacket— _the one Oswald picked out_ —and dabs it with his tongue, pressing it to Oswald’s cheek. Everything else seems to still, from Oswald’s erratic heartbeat to the sounds of a bustling city below, nothing felt so serene as Ed’s undivided attention, and there’s a minute where he can’t remember exactly _why_ he’d been so beside himself, until Ed pulls his hand back, folding over the blood-speckled cloth, and the world begins to turn again.

“We might run out of interns if you keep killing them,” Edward deadpans, distant stare flickering from Oswald’s lips to anywhere else in the office, “at least try to refrain from murder on the premises.”

And again, the only thing Oswald can respond with is, “okay.”

Oswald vows to make more of an effort to steer away from the living space as often as possible, even starts to have Olga bring his meals to the master suite.

After all, he’s still the _Mayor_ , still needs to feign some measure of restraint, a semblance of professionalism. It’s not _just_ because Ed scrutinized him for it.

It’s later that evening when Ed’s been fussing over what colour tie to wear, after what seems like hours spent boring over a registry of items he doesn’t talk with Isabella about but has no difficulty with Oswald. Ed turns to catch the glance of contempt Oswald throws him at the mention of his and Isabella’s date destination of the evening, to an exhibition at the re-opening of Gotham’s Museum of Art. Something they'd discussed attending  _together._

“I need to see this through,” Edward justifies, totally unprompted, having seen the myriad of disdainful glances Oswald shoots Isabella any chance he can. Ed starts a circular pace in front of where Oswald is situated on the couch. “I need you to understand.”

Oswald _really_ didn’t need Ed to explain it, didn’t need more confirmation of his own solitude. The weathered remnants of the start of something that was and yet wasn’t, all wrapped into the mould that left behind misery and enmity. All the memories are still fresh in his mind, ascertained by Ed’s chronic presence in his life day by day, like a constant reminder of what it had been like to have him in his arms, only to have him ripped away less than forty-eight hours later.

Oswald gives no reply, Edward moving closer to him when he still doesn’t speak, earning a nod of acknowledgement from him before he could get _too_ close.

“It’s something unfinished, Oswald. I need to hear you say you understand.”

Oswald’s glare holds steadfast towards the leg of the living room table, the one Isabella had chosen from an antique store that didn’t quite fit with the décor of her own home. He can’t prevent the roll of his eyes, reaching for the bottle of scotch from the side table, taking a long swig of it, before placing it in between his thighs. Unspoken sentiments hidden at the bottom of a bottle, he’d been drinking more regularly than before, much to Ed’s dismay, but he hadn’t been the best Chief of Staff lately, so what did it matter?

“I only want what’s best for you.”

The polysemy of Oswald’s reply goes unnoticed. Edward’s happiness was an important element to both of their lives. Oswald had seen to it to ensure Ed would recover from Arkham in the best of environments, saw to it he had somewhere to live and thrive, saw to it that Ed was _comfortable_.

Oswald’s own happiness was reliant on seeing Edward smile. The fact that he’d let Isabella live for this long should’ve garnered him a reward. Edward had been _his_ first, he’d been there all along, would be there long after she’s gone. She didn’t have the capacity to see Ed for what he was, no amount of hair dye or 'riddle of the day' would change that.

It was all destructively selfish, but he couldn’t have someone rip that indulgence from him, especially not someone who should’ve remained dead.

He also didn’t need Ed to explain _why_ , he understood it, probably better than Edward did. Anything unfinished meant something unsolved, and Edward wouldn’t be able to let it go until it was. Having the suspicious spitting image of his dead girlfriend come back to life, had enraptured him, and things needed to have a conclusion for him. Oswald knew that, it was an item on a long list of reasons he’d come to adore Edward Nygma, but it wouldn’t lessen the pain of it all.

Maybe it was better for them this way.

Ed's oxfords scuff against the hardwood floors as he tries in vain to think of an appropriate response, hearing the click of Isabella's heels down the staircase of the mansion, having spent this time preparing for their date, her steps signalling her closeness. Ed gives him a weary glance, as Isabella enters, a struggling texture to his tone as he breathes, "I'm sorry, Oswald." 

“For what, Ed?”

Isabella’s pull at Edward’s arm interrupts them, leaves the conversation hanging by a split thread. And he knows in that moment it'll be the only explanation he'll receive, sees something flash between them that he wishes he could linger on longer, wishes that he could've changed this course, but Isabella still needs to die. Oswald had written a story to their lives, Isabella hadn’t been an active participant, and it certainly hadn’t ended like this.

It’s not until months later, nearly a year, where the unspoken secret that lingers in behind threats, betrayals, temporary truces, and choices bond them more than Gotham’s present decline from misguided leadership.

An escape from Arkham prompts his freedom, executed by Jim Gordon of all people, aided by Lee and Edward. It feels like a dream, being led through the most putrid part of Gotham by his previous best friend, his longstanding amour.

They settle in an abandoned apartment complex, waiting for Lee’s return. And even after all this time, the one memory Oswald’s stored in the back of his mind, close enough it kept him awake at night, fueled dreams and nightmares alike.

“I still remember the way you taste.”

It catches Edward off-guard, regarding Oswald with a look of absolute hurt, confusion, and _something_ he can’t read, but it’s the silence of the reply that’s the most deafening.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2018~!


End file.
